Rarely, if Ever
by Padfoot Reincarnated
Summary: Draco has always been his father's son. But Lucius is in Azkaban, and it's time for Draco to find his own path. He and Harry Potter are more alike than he would have thought. HD slash.


**I do not own Harry Potter.**

**Anyway, here's your fic! It does have some slash, two males in a romantic relationship (Draco/Harry) so if that bothers you, please click back now.**

_Children begin by loving their parents; after a time they judge them; rarely, if ever, do they forgive them.  
- Oscar Wilde_

Draco knows that most people can't remember much from before their fifth birthday. All the same, he is mildly disappointed when he realizes that, at least in this respect, he is "most people."

That's not to say he doesn't remember some things, because he does.

He remembers his mother holding him on her lap, and he has the vague impression of her voice cradling him to sleep.

He remembers her hands prying him away from a broomstick in Diagon Alley, and he remembers people staring at his tears.

He remembers a day in the park with his mother and his aunt. He remembers lying flat on his back under their bench and feeling the grass tickle the back of his neck. He remembers sliding his fingers through the slats of wood and touching the corners of their robes.

The only thing he can't remember, he realizes, is his father.

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

He asks his mother about it the same year Harry Potter wins the Triwizard Tournament.

He is as casual as he can possibly be, and yet his hand is almost shaking, and tugging on the hair behind his ears. His mother watches him impassively.

"It's odd, isn't it, Mum?" he says. "But I can hardly remember anything about Dad from when I was little."

His eyes dart up to gage her reaction, and he finds a frown and bewildered eyes looking up at him from behind a long nose. "I thought you knew, Draco," she says, her eyes large and not quite innocent. "Your father was…indisposed, until you were almost six."

The next time he is in Hogsmeade, he visits the public library and discovers that "indisposed" is a euphemism for "in Azkaban."

The next time he sees Harry Potter, he is sure to insult his father.

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

After a while, he starts to think that, just maybe, losing five (almost six) years isn't as terrible as he'd assumed.

There is, after all, the memory of his sixth birthday, when he was given the same broomstick his mother had dragged him away from.

And going into Hogsmeade for the first time, and learning to hold his head high if people whispered.

He remembers clutching onto his father's wrists as they fell together through the sky, and his laughter when he realized that falling was the same thing as flying.

He also remembers the look on his mother's face when she told her nine-year-old son that his father would be away for Christmas.

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

Draco has been alive for sixteen years before he is ever really afraid.

He has always, in the past, been able to _do _things. And now he is trapped and there is nothing left to do and he. Is. So. Scared.

"Why don't you just leave?" Myrtle asks pragmatically. "Don't do it. There are plenty of places you could hide."

He shakes his had and his lips are moving without his consent. "No," he says, "That's impossible. He'll kill my parents." But even as he says it, he remembers that he hasn't really been close to his mother for years, and his father is in Azkaban. There is nothing to stop him from walking away.

"My father isn't worthless," he says fiercely.

Myrtle's pearly eyes blink behind her glasses. "I never said he was."

And he realizes that she didn't. He thought it up entirely on his own."

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

He loves his father. Of course he does.

But he doesn't speak about him so much anymore. He loves him, and he hates the thought of him. He hates himself for thinking it.

It isn't as difficult as it might have been, a few years ago, to avoid speaking about him. His housemates seem to have taken a silent oath to leave politics and the war at home.

The pictures of his family stay on his nightstand. They grow a little dusty, but he still recognizes the boy in the photos.

And when he sees Dumbledore in the Great Hall, when he hides his face and feels eyes on his back—

It is no longer _for _his father, but because of him.

He still loves him, though.

Of course he does.

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

He passes Harry Potter in the corridors more and more this year, through no will of his own. He finds that he could care less what Potter does with his free time, and is mildly surprised to realize this about himself.

"I'll find out what you're up to, Malfoy," Potter says venomously. His sidekick Granger is dancing nervously at his side.

Draco is too tired for this, but he is still able to recognize things about Potter that Potter does not recognize about himself. "No, you won't," he says. Because Potter can't think of anything as awful as what he's doing. Potter is still shocked at the slightest wrongdoing.

Draco isn't.

"You don't have a good bone in your body, Malfoy," Harry says, moving closer and almost yelling. "You don't know the slightest thing about love or kindness or—"

"I know a hell of a lot more than you do, you pitiful orphan," Draco says. He is not malicious, and he does not raise his voice. It is simply a fact, and there is no need to be passionate about facts.

And he walks away and leaves Potter staring.

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

Snape tells him, leaving no room for doubt, that the Death Eaters will not take him.

"You didn't kill him," he says calmly. "In the Dark Lord's eyes, you are a failure. If you go to them, you will be tortured and killed."

"He'll kill me no matter what," Draco protests tremulously.

He's a bit surprised to realize how attached he is to life.

But Snape is making him leave. He is on his own again, and he hasn't found out how to do things yet.

He knows he is probably going to die, and he figures that they will kill him no matter where he goes. So he heads home.

His mother is gone, and he is relieved. He is able to search the house and pack his trunk in peace.

He packs his invisibility cloak, and two regular cloaks, three changes of clothes, and everything he needs for his hair. The trunk isn't half full, but he can't think of anything else he could possibly need.

He's digging around under his bed when his fingers brush against a bit of parchment. It's his handwriting, from when he was about twelve or so. _Why My Dad is the Best_, for a _Daily Prophet_ contest.

He remembers writing this. He'd stayed up long after his housemates had gone to bed, and painstakingly scratching out as many details as he could think. _My dad bought me a broom; he taught me how to play chess; he talks to me when I'm lonely._

He remembers taking it home and being so proud of it. He remembers his father taking it from him and "fixing" it until it was hardly his at all.

He won first place.

He folds it four times and sticks it in the pocket of his trunk.

Then he apparatus to the address given to him by Snape. Number 4, Privet Drive; Little Whinging, Surrey.

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

He can tell as soon as he appears, standing in the middle of the street, that it's a Muggle neighborhood.

It looks like nowhere he's ever been: rows of fairly sizable houses, all looking exactly the same, line hedge-trimmed streets. The yards are neatly trimmed, and only a few have flowers: well-groomed rose bushes that make no attempt to look natural.

He laughs and looks at the house numbers. He's landed exactly where he intended: right at the end of the drive of Number Four. Shrugging his shoulders and whistling softly, he saunters up to the door and knocks twice.

It's only after he's actually knocked that he begins to worry. He knows Snape wouldn't have sent him anywhere terrible on purpose, but he's afraid of the unfamiliarity that he knows is awaiting them. And most of all, he's afraid that whoever it is will reject him.

Then he'll _really _be on his own.

Harry Potter answers the door.

They stare at each other through the screen door and blink. Draco feels his jaw drop, and sees Potter do the same.

"What are _you _doing here?" Draco asks in surprise.

Potter finally collects himself. "I live here during the summers," he says coolly, watching Draco suspiciously. "What are _you _doing here?"

Draco scowls ferociously. "Oh, I thought I'd start off my holidays murdering Harry Potter."

Potter glares. Draco sighs. "Professor Snape told me to come," he admits. "He says I'd be safe here. But I guess he was mistaken. I'll leave."

"Wait," Potter says abruptly. "You can—"

"Hey, Harry!" he hears from inside the house. "What're you doing?" He hears heavy footsteps making their way towards the door, and then the red-headed Weasel appears, with Granger on his trail. "Harry!" Ron yelps, outrages, upon seeing Draco. "What's _he _doing here?"

Of course. Just what Draco wants: a Weasel.

"He needs somewhere to stay," Potter says firmly. "And we're letting him stay here."

Weasley's ear glow an almost radioactive shade of pink. "Oh, no, Harry! Not that rat! I was just getting settled in here, and you want to bring in that _ferret_?"

"Ron," Potter begins complacently.

But he is interrupted by Granger. "Harry," she says hesitatingly. "I think Ron's right. He's probably a spy; you said yourself that he was a Death Eater."

Weasley looks at her proudly; Potter looks as though he was very close to rolling his eyes. "You guys didn't see him," he says. "On the tower. I don't think Dumbledore would have wanted us to leave him out."

Draco feels his stomach flop weakly. "The tower"? Potter hadn't seen him with Dumbledore, had he?

Potter looks at him and nods almost imperceptibly.

"Harry," Granger says timidly. "Dumbledore—well, he's dead."

Potter looks at her tiredly. "I know," he says. "And that's why _we're_ going to do this. What he would have wanted."

Draco looks between them, the circle of friends, and feels the weak memory of jealously. He did not know if he would do what his father wanted, after he was dead. He did not know if he could say "we." But Harry Potter could.

Just another reason to hate him.

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

As soon as he steps in the door, he is accosted by a rather fat, mustachioed man.

"And who are you?" he roars. "Potter, this better not be another one of those—of your?"

Now he seems a little uncertain, and Draco shoves him away with both hands.

"You spit on me," he says accusingly.

He hears the Weasel laugh, and quickly disguise it as a cough.

"I want you out of my house!" the man says furiously, his face slowly growing puce.

Draco pulls his wand out of his pocket and holds it in the muggle's face. A dead silence falls over the group.

Potter's little trio retreats upstairs, and Draco follows quietly.

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

They all file into a small bedroom. It's terribly cramped: there's a twin sized bed in the middle, and a cot on either side. There's no room to stand, much less to sit down. The beds are covered with papers and robes and socks and potion ingredients and candy wrappers.

The Gryffindors push some stuff off of the bed and sit beside each other, feet kicking. The Weasel and Granger are holding hands.

"Finally found somebody willing to go out with you, Weasley?" Draco said. "And you too, Granger, impressive. It figures that you two are the only ones willing to go near each other."

Then Weasley and Granger both start yelling at him at once, and Potter's trying to hold both of them from jumping on him.

Rather quick tempers, those Gryffindors.

"Shut _up!_" Potter screams.

They obey, falling back on the bed. Draco smiles beatifically.

"You—Malfoy," he says jerkily. "I said you could stay here, but that means you have to be polite. And you have to be willing to help us. This," he said, jerking his thumbs at his friends. "Does not qualify as helping."

Draco nods slowly.

Potter smiles at him. "That was pretty cool the way you stood up to my uncle down there," he says. "You must have had lots of practice.

Draco thinks of his father.

"Not really," he says.

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

Weasley and Granger are both of age, and they can both legally use magic outside school. Granger transfigures a cardboard box into a cot for him, and they shove it into the only place there's room—the closet.

But Harry says they have to give Ron a chance to practice, too, so it's Weasley's job to make him a blanket and pillows. But the sheet of parchment he tries to turn into a blanket turns into a giant tissue, instead; and the pillow he makes out of one of Harry's socks smells like smoke and makes a funny beeping noise whenever he puts his head on it.

He thinks that if his father were here he would never have to put up with any of this.

He also wonders, very quietly, if he would rather be here than with his father, no matter the sleeping conditions.

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

During the day, they either leave the house entirely or stay cramped up in Harry's bedroom.

Draco sticks with them; quite frankly, Granger makes him. She says it's safer for him to be where they can see him.

Draco likes it when they go outside. It's hot, yes, but they chase something called an ice-cream van down the street and they fill themselves with sugar and air until their hands and lips are sticky with juice.

Draco walks beside them, a few feet away, and watch as they laugh together. Or sometimes their heads will all be bowed together in serious conversation.

He's never really a part of them.

But it's okay, he's used to being alone.

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

Sometimes Granger and Weasley go out on their own and leave him alone with Harry.

Generally, they don't talk much. What do you say to someone who who've tormented since you were eleven—especially if they've fought back just as hard?

He has been staying with them for a little under a month, when, once they are sitting in the uncomfortable silence left in Granger and Weasley's wake, he excuses himself to the bathroom and returns to find Potter sitting by his trunk, holding his essay about his father.

Draco feels himself turning red and snatches it from his hands. Potter at least has the decency to look ashamed.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I shouldn't have done that." Draco nods curtly. Potter hesitates, then says, "You really liked your father, didn't you?"

Draco laughs painfully. "Don't you dare say a word against my father, Potter," he says, his voice harsh. "Just go back to hero-worshiping your own, and leave me in peace."

There is silence for a minute, then Potter continues speaking. "I don't worship my father, Malfoy," he says. "I might have used to—but then I realize he isn't—he wasn't _perfect_. And, well. I wish I could have known him, to ask why he did some of the things he did." Potter laughs. "I don't know why I'm telling you this," he says. "But Ron and Hermione are together now, and—well, I'm happy for them, but I wish they had more time for _me_. Do you think that's selfish?"

Draco shook his head slowly. "I understand," he says calmly.

That's something he never expected to say.

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

After that, Draco finds himself trusting Potter a bit more, and he thinks that Potter seems to trust him a bit more, too. At least he sticks up for him in front of Granger and Weasley, sometimes, and they talk more.

He learns that Harry used to live in a cupboard under the stairs.

He learns that he used to be so afraid of his cousin that he would hide for days rather than see him

He learns that Potter was the one who let Wormtail go.

He learns that he blames himself for Diggory and Black and even Dumbledore.

"I almost don't want to let Hermione and Ron come with me," he admits quietly. "I'm afraid that something will happen—but I think I _need _them to come. I don't have a choice."

Draco nods. "Will you let me come?" he asks.

Potter smiles at him. "Yeah," he says, and then his mood quickly turns sober. "If you'll come. Malfoy, you know—you might be fighting your dad."

Draco swallows and nods tightly. "I can do that," he says simply.

Potter nods and touches his shoulder. "I'm sorry," he says.

Sometimes Draco wonders how he could even consider staying with his father, if it meant losing this.

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

He wakes up one night to hear the three Gryffindors in a heated argument.

"What's going on?" he asks sleepily, blinking his eyes and fumbling for a switch.

"Go back to bed, Draco," Harry orders evenly. "It's nothing."

"No, Harry, he needs to hear this!" Weasley argues. "After all, it's his fault!"

"What did I do?" Draco asks, confused.

"You—you messed up Harry!" Weasley blurts. "He trusts you too much. You slipped him a potion, didn't you?"

"Ron, it really doesn't make sense to tell him any of this," Hermione interrupts quietly. "Harry—we can talk more tomorrow."

So Draco stays awake until he hears two sets of snores—Weasley's loud train noises and Hermione's soft, almost imperceptible one.

"Harry?" he calls softly.

"Yeah," he says. "I'm awake."

"I can leave if you want," he offers. "It was great that I had a place to stay for a while. But—I guess I didn't really expect to last long, anyway. And I don't want to mess things up for you. You need your friends to take down You-Know-Who."

"Don't worry," Harry says. "They'll be fine. And they're right. I do trust you."

"Too much? Are they right about that, too?"

"No," Harry answers. "I'm not sending you away."

Draco smiles. This is new. He thinks that Harry wants him to stay because he is him; because they are friends. He doesn't think it has anything to do with what he can or can't do.

He tries to believe that's how it was with his father.

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

The week before Harry's birthday, he forms a party committee with Granger and Weasley.

They clash immediately. Draco wants to throw a traditional Wizarding party, with baubles and enchanted gifts and traps and games and, (most of all), Firewhiskey.

Granger and Weasley want something simple; a cake and homemade presents and a song or two.

He thinks Harry needs a change; they want to keep things the same.

No one is more surprised than Draco when Hermione eventually gives in and agrees to do it this way. Ron quickly follows her, though he fumes and snarls as he does.

Hermione volunteers to work on decorations with Draco, and they leave Weasley to pack decorations. But he supposes he should have known better than to think she didn't have some other motive, because as soon as they are apart from Ron, she stops abruptly.

"Listen," she says. "I don't trust you. I know Harry does, though. And Malfoy, as horrible a person as I know you are, you seem to care about him, a little. So tell me right now: are you going to do anything to hurt him?"

Draco hesitates. "Not on purpose," he says. But he thinks of his father and he thinks of being alone and he remembers how easy it is to slip up, to make a mistake. "I'll try."

Granger frowns. "I want you to promise."

Draco wonders if he can.

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

Somewhere along the way, Draco has noticed that all the reasons he hates Harry are just as valid reasons for loving him.

He is honest and loyal and brave, and he makes Draco try to be those things, too. And his messy hair is endearing, and his huge eyes are thoughtful.

Draco kisses him after the party.

Harry makes a small, surprised noise into the corner of his mouth, and allows Draco to touch his hair and face and skin.

After all, they are leaving tomorrow, maybe for good.

Besides; Draco doesn't think either of them would have made very good fathers, anyway.

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

Draco wonders if he might have died in the war if he hadn't been so afraid.

But he_ is _afraid. He spends the war tiptoeing around, painfully tense, glancing over his shoulder and around every corner. He doesn't have nightmares; mainly because he hardly sleeps at all.

Harry is a comforting presence, when he can see him. But he needs protecting as much as Draco does; and many times Draco wakes up in the middle of the night to Harry's screams.

It is guerrilla warfare of the crudest kind; Draco keeps waiting for a big battle to break out; for one crushing blow that will kill them all.

He is afraid of two things most of all.

One is that Harry will be killed. He doubts he's the only one who is afraid of this. He tries to stay with Harry at all times, as though he can stop it just by being there. He screams more loudly when Harry comes close to death than when he comes close to it himself.

The other thing he is afraid of is his father.

He is afraid that he will escape Azkaban; he is afraid he will have to fight him. He is afraid he will not be able to, and his father will. He is afraid of learning that his father does not really lov—he is just afraid.

But Harry, along with his friends, prove to be better at the whole game of War than Draco had expected. There are no more breakouts from Azkaban.

Then Draco begins to worry that his father will starve, or die of illness.

He wants things to be simple again. He wants—

He doesn't even know _that_ anymore.

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

Somehow they all survive—Harry, Draco, and his father.

Draco has not planned this far.

The first few weeks are going to parties and celebrations and memorials. They are also funerals and tears and finding bodies still.

And they keep going, all the same. Draco never really expected the world to continue after the war.

He moves in with Harry, to a house in London called Number 12, Grimmauld Place. It's a huge, filthy manor, and fixing it up occupies them for several months. It gives him time to forget and wander, but also to remember.

Then his father writes.

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

He has not seen his father in six years, since he was fifteen. He barely remembers him at all.

His handwriting is shaky and fragile, with ink blots smeared in several places. The language nothing like the flowery prose Draco remembers. He wonders if this is what a dying man sounds like.

_Dear Son,_

_They said I can get out of here but only if you give me bail I hope you will it is awful here and I don't think I can last much longer. It is really bad. Please come with two-thousand galleons or I will be here till I die and I don't think it will be long. I will need to stay with you for a while._

_Lucius_

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

He decides to ask Harry what he would think of his father coming to stay with them.

"If you want to," Harry agrees, shrugging. "I understand. He's your father, after all, and you haven't seen him in ages."

Draco had not realized how much he had been hoping for a refusal until Harry actually agreed.

"You wouldn't like it," he warns. "I mean...you know the things my father's done."

Harry takes his hand. "Draco," he says kindly. "It's okay. He hasn't seen the light of day for six years. If you want to bail him out, go ahead."

Draco nods and stares ahead blankly.

"Okay," he says.

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

He puts off going to Azkaban for several days. He mopes around the house and tries to ignore Harry's sympathetic glances.

Early Wednesday morning he hops on his broomstick and lands at Azkaban about four hours later.

There's human guards, now that most of the Dementors gone, and the prison is quieter than he remembers from his one previous visit. There is less screaming, for one thing.

His father's cell is about halfway towards the back. Not quite maximum security, but far past simple robberies and hexes.

When Draco arrives, his father is asleep on the floor of his cell. Azkaban is an almost medieval prison; this cell is no different.

Lucius is huddled under a rag that might have once been a blanket. There is a puddle in the back, and cockroaches and mice crawl across the ground.

"I knew you would come," says the man who used to be Draco's father.

Draco hardly recognizes him. He has a beard that stretches down to his chest, and his hair is gray and matted where it hasn't fallen out His face is sallow, and his body is painfully skinny. Sores cover his hands and cheeks.

"Father," Draco whispers, kneeling on the ground and stretching his hand through the bars to touch his father's hand. He feels tears running down his face.

Lucius gives a crooked smile, and Draco sees that most of his teeth are gone. "I am so...grateful, Draco," he says.

Draco draws back his hand and clutches it to his own chest. He shakes his head frantically. "No," he says. "I can't."

Lucius' smile fades. "What do you mean?" he asks.

"I can't do this," he says. "I can't get you out of here. I don't _want _to."

And now it's said and there is nothing left to say. Lucius turns his back to his son, and Draco sees his spine protruding through his robes.

"Father," he says painfully, trying to reach for the other man. He falls short. "Father!"

Lucius does not utter another word.

Draco leaves.

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

Harry is waiting for him when he gets home. He does not say a word, just takes Draco in his arms and rubs his hair and kisses him and lets him sob into his shoulder.

"I couldn't," Draco whispers, ashamed, "I couldn't."

"You're a good person, Draco," Harry says, kissing him gently.

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

Draco's father dies a year later. There are no funerals for convicts, but Draco is present when they bury his body.

Lucius is peaceful in death as he never had been in life. His eyes are closed, his hair brushed, his hands folded. Draco can almost see a shadow of the man he so ardently admired in his youth.

He cries very little.

And then he goes home to Harry; they are both orphans now.

He feels a certain lightness as he goes to bed that night. That night he sleeps dreamlessly.

He is finally free from the ghost of his father.

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